Every Body has a Story

by Beverly Gologorsky

  10.

  It’s not quite five when she reaches the nursing home in a rundown neighborhood near Washington Heights. A large man seated behind a small reception desk pays her no mind. She ignores the sign-in book. Framed photos of cats, dogs, and horses line one wall. The lighting is dim, the windows sooty, the couch sagging. Still, after spending two hours walking around the Bronx Botanical Gardens, she’s glad to sit. Tina used to take Matt and her to the gardens for pizza-and-Coke picnics. It was far enough from the South Bronx to feel like an adventure. Today, though, the gardens bored her and the overpowering scent of lilies in the greenhouse drove her out. It’s sad to no longer experience the joy of small events.

  Dory strides through the lobby in black slacks and a yellow turtleneck sweater, her shiny mane of pale red hair tied back with a black velvet ribbon.

  “There you are. Sorry about your job, but you look elegant in your suit.”

  “That and two bucks will get me where?”

  “True.” Dory slips into her white down jacket with its black fur-trimmed hood.

  The automatic doors open and shut behind them.

  The cold wind stings their faces. They walk quickly, passing boarded-up shops, dirt lots filled with broken appliances, and buildings she can’t believe people still live in, except they do. Many streetlamps aren’t working and car headlights startle the ashy darkness.

  “Are you freaking out?”

  “I’m upset to lose the paycheck but strangely not the job. It feels like a door opening onto an unfamiliar street.”

  “Change takes time to absorb. I see it with new admissions. Some are never ready. They clam up and clutch a doll like it was life itself.”

  “They’re old, I’m not. It’s different.” A spark of annoyance alights in her.

  “Right. You’re free to discover.”

  “Are you being sarcastic? I have responsibilities.”

  “Which stops you from doing what?”

  “Going abroad,” she says sarcastically. “Taking an easel to the park, spending the spring months painting what I see.” Matt, again.

  “Since when has that been your desire?”

  “Since this minute. I might apply to be a guide on a tour bus.”

  “You don’t mean that.”

  “Why not?”

  “You’d make more as a waitress.”

  “It’s not about the money.”

  “I get that. What did Zack say about you being fired?”

  “Haven’t told him yet.”

  Dory stops short. “Why?”

  “I don’t know. Keep walking, it’s cold.”

  “Sure you do. We always know.”

  “Why is everyone else so wise?”

  “Who else?”

  “Tina told me take a vacation and not suffer.”

  “Why haven’t you phoned Zack?”

  “Because I know what he’ll say, and I don’t want to hear the predictable, ‘Honey, come home. I’ll cook dinner. You relax.’ In short, nothing, he’ll say nothing.”

  Across the street is a small bar. “Let’s go in, I’m freezing,” Dory says.

  She glances at the grimy windows filled with fading beer posters. “Is it safe?”

  “Whoever’s waiting in a dark corner will have to take us both on,” Dory replies. “Remember that night long ago? My god, the poor guy … we screamed like banshees, scared him out of his pants.”

  “He shouldn’t have been lurking in that hallway.”

  “Why not? He lived there.”

  “Great memories,” she murmurs.

  “Hey, a little levity, always welcome.”

  Except for the bartender, no one else is inside. It’s a small room with a few red formica tables across a narrow aisle from the bar. The table is so small their knees touch, and she flashes on that long-ago day in the funeral limo, a man stroking her knee with fat fingers, the pleasant sensation shaming her.

  “This place looks older than my charges,” Dory whispers.

  “Do you think all neighborhood bars have bad lighting and not enough heat?” She wraps her coat around her shoulders.

  “Two scotch, neat, with water on the side,” Dory orders.

  The bartender, heavy around the middle, with slim shoulders and a disinterested expression, deposits their drinks on the water-stained bar.

  “So, again. Why didn’t you go home? Why aren’t you being comforted in the arms of family? What’s there that …”

  Her hand goes up. “Stop. I don’t want to process any of it right now. Let’s talk about what’s going on with you.” She searches Dory’s face, her silky skin pale in this light.

  “Why would anything be going on?”

  “Stu staying out nights, the job change …”

  She shrugs. “He’s having a hard time at work, but he won’t talk about it, just drinks it away. If I try to stop the drinking, well, I don’t know that I can.”

  “You’ve never been one to accept crap and not try to change the situation.”

  “You’re one to talk. You won’t even call home.”

  “That’s different. I’ll tell everyone in due time, just not this minute.”

  “I’ll deal with Stu in due time, just not yet.”

  “It bothers me to see you sucking it up …”

  “Enough, Lena, don’t go there.”

  “Okay, but I see you as tougher than me.” She slips her arms into the coat and resettles in its warmth.

  “Well, maybe I am, maybe I can wait it out. Anyway, ponder this. We haven’t fucked in weeks.” Dory finishes her drink.

  “I’d find that a relief,” Lena says, surprising herself.

  “We could trade.”

  “If you could even contemplate life without Stu …”

  “You’re right. I don’t mean a word of it.” Dory shuts her mouth tight.

  “I didn’t mean to upset you. I only learned today that Jerome died, and Tina told me she’s afraid of getting old.”

  “Sad. But Tina will never get old.”

  “I said as much. She was a rock to me. Sometimes I wonder if I should’ve married Matt and gotten her in the bargain. Sounds crazy, but Tina acting like something’s out there waiting to snatch her away spooked me.”

  “Babe, you just lost your job. You feel vulnerable, which is the true female curse.”

  She glances out the dirt-streaked window at the empty, busted-up sidewalk. “Amazing, what we can’t or won’t or don’t know how to deal with,” Dory muses.

  “Like Stu?”

  “You promised. Hey, we can’t get a buzz on one drink. Another round,” Dory calls.

  The bartender fills two narrow shot glasses to the brim. Dory retrieves them, depositing one in front of her. “Three neat is the magic number for buzz. Remember?”

  How could she not? Their younger years were spent in bars, at movies, and on beaches. After a few drinks induced an aura of well-being, the next stop was finding a private space to make love. It was all about sex then and she didn’t even know it.

  Dory downs her shot in one gulp. “Go on, you too.” Lena drains the glass. “Good girl.” Dory leans across to the bar with two empty glasses. “Again, please.” He obliges without a word. No judge, he.

  “Dory, take it easy.”

  “Drink up and we’ll go slow on the next round.”

  “This is going to cost a fortune,” she says.

  “Yup.”

  Again, she drains the glass, her throat no longer registering the initial shock of bitterness. What if they didn’t go home? Stayed out all night, watched the sunrise—from where?—then breakfast at a diner?

  The door swings open with a bang. “Mikel, how the hell are you?” A booming voice followed by a burst of cold air, the door left ajar.

  “Hey, shut the door,” Dory calls.

  “Oops, sorry.” He’s too exuberant for such a cold, dark night, she thinks, taking him in. About her age, broad-shouldered, in a handsome beige car coat, leather gloves, silky white sc
arf, the latter an interesting touch. He leans over the counter in a proprietary manner. “The usual, my friend. How’s every little thing?”

  “Nothing new,” the low baritone voice of the bartender is as surprising as his name.

  “Ah, Mikel, there’s always something new. Life is where you look.”

  Dory whispers, “I would’ve sworn John or Bob, but Mikel?”

  “Mothers are always optimistic.”

  Dory laughs. “You should call home. They’ll have the police out.”

  “Do you ladies need help?” He overhears and flashes his badge.

  “Fort Apache,” they say in unison.

  “Ladies from the Bronx. Anywhere near the 49th?”

  “Not anymore, thank the lord,” Dory says.

  “Do you need a cop?”

  “It was just an expression.”

  “Can I get the next round?”

  “No thanks, we’re good,” Dory declares.

  “Want to share names?” The man smiles. Nice white teeth.

  “She’s Lena, I’m Dory.”

  “And you?” Lena asks, taking in his thin wedding band. Marry young, fuck around forever, the old neighborhood motto. Not Zack, though, she reminds herself. Why not?

  “Arthur,” he says.

  “Arthur?” Dory tries not to giggle.

  “What’s funny?”

  “He’s Mikel and you’re Arthur,” she explains, realizing she’s saying nothing. Call home, she tells herself, but a spacey, laziness swirls inside her head.

  He drains his shot glass. “You sure I can’t get us another round?”

  “One more,” she agrees, ignoring Dory’s head shake, “then we have to go.”

  He sets down three full shot glasses and pulls up a chair. A handsome dude, Rosie would say, with his black patent leather hair and dark shiny eyes.

  “That white scarf is an original touch,” she says, a ventriloquist giving voice to her thoughts.

  He unwraps it, tosses it over her shoulder. “Looks good against all that dark hair.” His eyes subtly investigate her.

  She wraps the scarf around her throat. The silkiness beneath her chin is compelling.

  “So what do you know about my precinct.”

  “Nothing, really. It was years ago.” Dory says.

  “I remember tripping and bloodying my nose when I was seven or eight. A cop brought me into the precinct and gave me an ice pack.” There were, of course, the other times Lena doesn’t mention.

  His laugh is strangely high-pitched and feminine.

  “Aren’t cops always with a partner?” Dory interrupts.

  “I’m a detective. I’m driving north. Want a ride home?”

  Dory catches her eye, indicating no. She ignores it.

  “That would be super. We have to leave real soon.”

  “I’m about ready, have to deal with nature’s call.” He finishes the drink, then disappears into the dark back of the bar.

  “Are you crazy?” Dory whispers, pulling the scarf off Lena’s shoulder and depositing it on his chair. “We’re not friends of cops, remember?”

  Yes, she does remember: two teens on an empty, dark boardwalk, two cops with groping hands, laughing, taunting. Who are you going to call for help? But that was a different time in a different place.

  “Let’s get out of here before he returns,” Dory insists.

  “That would be rude. Besides, it’ll cost a mint for a cab and we’re in no condition for mass transportation. He’s only being nice.”

  “No stranger is just being nice.”

  “You invited him over.”

  “I did not. He heard me say police.”

  “Same thing.”

  “Lena, we’re drunk. I’ll pay for the taxi. Driving with a guy we don’t know is stupid.”

  “But he’s a detective, he’s …”

  “Oh give me a break, he’s a man. Please, Lena, let’s go.”

  “Not before thanking him properly.”

  Dory sighs. “Your judgment sucks, but we’ll say goodbye.”

  “So, ladies …” He wraps the scarf back around his neck, which looks sexy to her.

  “Thanks for the offer, but there’s a few stops we have to make before getting home, so you go on without us,” she hears Dory say, wondering if the evening’s adventure is over, wondering, too, if he’s written anything on the back of the card he’s handing her. If she were alone, she just might go dancing with Arthur. He’d be good at it, she’s certain, guiding her across the floor, her head resting on his shoulder … because she’s very tired …

  The taxi drops her off first. She gets out at the corner of her street. It might alarm her family if she pulls up in a cab. It’s late. Her phone’s been off. She walks along the snow-banked edges of the road. It’s so cold it seems breathing’s dangerous. She feels a surge of sympathy for Zack, working outdoors all day. Warm light spills out of houses onto small lawns. Four shots of scotch on an empty stomach, oh, woe tomorrow. Arthur’s card, what did she do with it?

  Everyone is in the living room.

  “Where have you been?” Rosie scolds.

  “We couldn’t reach you,” Casey adds.

  From the couch Zack wears an expression she can’t read.

  “I assume you all had dinner.” Oh, god, she’s slurring.

  “Mom, what’s going on?” Rosie, again.

  ‘I’m a little drunk,” she admits. “Just a little. Dory and I had a few.”

  “Dad has some bad news,” Casey says solemnly.

  Work accident runs through her sodden brain, but he looks intact, hands on his lap, legs stretched out, eyes gazing at anything but her.

  “What?”

  “Dad was laid off,” Rosie says, the privilege of knowledge in her commanding tone.

  She laughs.

  “Oh, shit, you are drunk,” Rosie says. “Go to bed. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

  “You go to bed,” she says, still stifling laughter.

  “Mom, you’re scaring me,” Casey says.

  “Sorry, honey. It’s just funny. I mean sad-funny. Never mind. I’m going to take your advice, Rosie.” Without looking at Zack, she walks ever so carefully up each step to the bedroom.

  Their voices reach as she undresses. Go to sleep, all of you, she mutters into the pillow. Tomorrow she’ll remain in bed. She can. She’s not working. Except that’s what her mother did, remained in bed. We have a situation here, she tells herself, and pulls the comforter over her head.

  “It’s snowing,” Rosie shouts.

  PART TWO

  11.

  The summer heat presses against the car windows. Clouds burden the sky. People are indoors with A/C or out in their bedroom-sized backyards. She pulls up in front of her house, tired from yet another day of job interviews out of too many days to count. Rain begins to splatter the windshield.

  She hears loud voices and raucous laughter, and flashes on an old cartoon of a levitating house, floors shaking, furniture floating, windows expanding explosively. She pushes open the door. Lots of people making lots of noise. It’s a party no one’s told her about and in her house. She eyes the debris of paper plates and cups on unprotected surfaces, food-filled dishes that don’t belong to her, empty beer bottles strewn everywhere. Around here parties get wild.

  A few table fans whirr to no effect.

  Always a good actress—in school the best parts were hers—she leans against the front door. “Wow!”

  Zack calls out, “It’s a party, enjoy.”

  She stands there, a smile pasted on her face, thinking she needs a scotch, neat, and quick. Zack shoulders her into the crowd, then walks off before she can ask him what’s going on. Mumbling hello, touching arms, she weaves through clusters of people, social conditioning stronger than bewilderment. Most of them she’s met casually at the supermarket, school, somewhere, but she can’t remember who is who. Women in their thirties and forties in sun dresses or shorts and wedged shoes, summoned from their backyards. In fact t
he resemblance among them feels a bit eerie. The men, too, dressed for summer in cutoffs or shorts, tank tops, baseball caps, making it difficult to see their faces. Does she care? Only that she, too, would like to slip into something comfortable. She settles for removing her dress jacket and stepping out of her pumps.

  “Mom,” Rosie whispers, “good entrance. Everyone thinks you’re glad to see them.”

  She’s about to say, I am, but fooling Rosie isn’t that simple. She smiles at her daughter’s unblemished face, the doe-like eyes, so misrepresentative of the child’s temperament. “You think so?”

  “Yeah, now you have to talk to people.”

  “Rosie, why are these neighbors here?” She tries to keep the alarm out of her voice.

  “Dad follows some instinct none of us share.”

  “It looks like he went door to door inviting every neighbor. I hope people brought their own booze.”

  “Whatever,” Rosie says and sidles over to chat with a man in his forties. She has no idea who he is, but it’s clear he can’t take his eyes off her daughter. “Rosie, I need another minute.”

  “Here I come.” Her daughter sashays over.

  “In the kitchen, please.”

  And she follows Lena in.

  “When did Dad invite these people?”

  Rosie shrugs. “It was spur of the moment.”

  “Why? Tell me.”

  “It’s nothing. It’s just a party,” she says with a bit of disdain.

  “I don’t want secrets.”

  “Christ, Mom.”

  “Tell me.” The mother’s no-shit stern voice.

  “Honestly, I don’t know what hit Dad this morning, but he said we had to have a party. We needed to lighten up our lives. It would be potluck and he’d take care of inviting people. Happy now?”

  “Why didn’t you call or text me?”

  “Did you get the job?”

  “No, and I don’t want any more surprises.”

  “Forgive us our trespasses.”

  “Don’t be snide.”

  “You love spoiling anything nice others want to do.”

  She stares at Rosie. “Oh, god, now isn’t the time for this.”

  “Then we agree.” And Rosie saunters back over to the older man who is way too pleased to be speaking to a fifteen year-old.